A Hogwarts Mystery
by Alex the Anachronistic
Summary: There's a murder...or five or twelve...abrew at Hogwarts. Who you gonna call? Hercule Poirot! He use his little gray cells to save the day. If, that is, he's able to catch the culprit before he strikes again! Set after PoA.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I didn't create Harry Potter, and I don't pretend I did. Don't sue me. Don't steal my original characters. That's it._\_

_Craaash! bwoinnnng bwoinng bwoing._

A tall, lean, and almost beautiful middle-aged woman picked herself up off the ground and adjusted her glasses. Her blonde bouffant of hair shone in the crimson hanging torches above.

"Dear Merlin! Did I do that?!"

A pile of various gold, bronze, silver, and even tin trophies lay strewn upon the ground. One particular engraved discus was still in the process of rolling away, far from the reaches of Filch and his angry rubbing cloth.

McGonagall stood by, viewing the spectacle with a pained look upon her countenance.

"Never mind those; Argus has so little to do that he may as well--"

"--Oh! But I must straighten these up, my dear Minerva!"

McGonagall flinched at the informality of this woman whom she had met but five minutes before. Already, though, Greta Muhlenkamp was back on her knees, assembling the assortment of awards in her arms.

"It is not necessary, really, Miss Muhlenkamp…"

"It IS necessary!"

_Clatter-clatter CRUNCH._

"My…my glasses!"

Minerva McGonagall had the hardest time not rolling her eyes at the clumsiness of the newcomer to Hogwarts.

"I'm blind as a bat without them!" Greta was squinting and passing her hands over the floor in a most melodramatic manner. But then, what was not melodramatic with her?

McGonagall stooped gracefully and rose again almost in the blink of any-person-not-named-Greta-Muhlenkamp's-eye.

"Unfortunately, I must report that the lens is cracked," McGonagall murmured wistfully.

"Oh, hand them to me, I'll--"

"--Erm, no. I shall fix them…" McGonagall regretted that she could not, for that unfathomable yet so necessary thing called politeness, add:

"…Or you'll manage to blow the school to bits when you try."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I didn't create Harry Potter, and I don't pretend I did. Don't sue me. Don't steal my original characters. That's it._\_

After without further mishap escorting the effusive yet nearly combustive woman to her bedroom near the Gryffindor tower, McGonagall hurried as fast as her shriveling arthritic legs could carry her to the Teacher's Lounge. She was met upon her entrance, not surprisingly, with the faces of practically half the other teachers in the school.

"Oh dear Merlin who the hell was that?" Impatient young Temperance Ferguson, teacher of Ancient Runes, spoke up as she doused her cigarette against a marble bust of Picantruos. She was the only one at Hogwarts who smoked the wretched Muggle things, and everyone hated her for it. However, being that she was an excellent teacher, and that she spent most of her time out in her excavation pits anyways, everyone had learned to tolerate her habit when she brought it indoors.

"She better not be _my_ new assistant." Rubeus Hagrid had gotten the idea into his head that his request for help with the magical beasts was heeded by anyone.

"She'd be best advised to stay away from the dungeons" Severus Snape's silky dour voice rose above the mess, the consistency of souring milk just with a touch of green. No one paid him any attention.

"I think I've seen her before in that Muggle movie picture, _Love Tells All Tales,_ isn't that right?" Garrulous little Filius Flitwick blushed deeply at stating this revealing comment when he realized what he had said.

"You're utterly mistaken, that woman is no more a Muggle than I'm a house elf." Snape wrinkled his heavy nose, not liking his previous comment being completely ignored.

McGonagall's eyelids fluttered with annoyance.

"She's not a Muggle, no, Severus. Her name is Greta Muhlenkamp, and she is filling the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher this year, since Remus had the misfortune to require…_departure._" Minerva purposefully fired this attack towards Snape, who had been, in her eyes, wholly responsible for what had been spoken of ever since in hush-hush manner as 'the Incident.'

Snape snarled and shut up.

McGonagall collapsed onto a settee next to Albus Dumbledore, who, at the time, was the only one sitting. "Albus, if you weren't in the room, I'd simply swear that I was getting too old for this."

Albus's eyes twinkled beneath his glasses. "Perhaps we both are."

McGonagall pretended to ignore the comment, but a thoughtful look remained on her face.

Snape, at this point, strode to the door angrily. "Just keep that woman away from my dungeons and my sanity shall remain intact." With such, he made his brisk departure.

Ferguson rolled her eyes flamboyantly and lit another cig. "Just keep that man away from anywhere but his dungeons and _our_ sanity will never run the risk of being lost."

"Temperance! I would think you were ineptly named," Albus said, his voice just on the borderline of firm and harsh.

Temperance shrugged indifferently. "So I've been told…_all_ my life…"

Albus continued, ignoring this interruption. "Severus' bark is far worse than his bite, but even that doesn't mean that we can go about disrespecting him behind his back."

"Huh, yeah. I wouldn't mind disrespecting the man in his face!" Temperance was full of charm and grace ordinarily; besides, she was a woman. That must have been why everyone liked her well enough despite her nicotine obsession, when they all loathed Severus. Perhaps, if Snape used L'Oreal and wore skirts, his witticisms would be better regarded. At least, better regarded by everyone besides Dumbledore.

Albus himself looked rather hurt. "Temperance, do try and keep a civil tongue."

"Never you mind, I'll get out before you get that far." With a flashy half-grin, Temperance picked up her scarlet purse from the table and strode out, her hips swaying provocatively in the too-tight gray tweed suit-skirt she wore.

"Uh…I'll be off myself; I forgot to…well, I have to…er, bye." And Flitwick trotted off in hot pursuit of the young (at least in his eyes) woman.

"Well, I guess it be teatime after all," Hagrid looked towards the door. "Care to come round my place for a bite?"

McGonagall opened her mouth to reply, but Albus was too quick for her. "Certainly, Rubeus. Do join us." Albus looked at McGonagall carefully.

"Only, let us have tea up here. You forget how…old…us two are getting. Stairs are not as friendly as they used to be, I daresay."

Rubeus nodded his giant head and winked at Albus. "Right. I'll go and be gettin' sum scones…be back in a jiffy." With as much, he admitted himself with some difficulty out the door.

McGonagall turned her head to look at Albus. "Is there something going on I ought to know about?"

"My dear, how could you even think such a thing?" Albus' tone sounded hurt, but his face was alight with anticipation.

"Well, Hagrid made it only too obvious with his little winking regime. What are you up to?" But all at once, Minerva's face fell, and she stood up as though swept in a sudden chill. "Oh. No. Five years on this date have elapsed since the last time…" She stood, facing Albus directly in the eye. Her voice and face spoke as though she were reprimanding a bad dog.

"It has indeed, my dear, and I'll go through the motions again even if you've seen it nine times before." And so Albus Dumbledore dug in his pocket and withdrew a small blue velvet box, worn with age. And so he got up off the couch, and actually went on one knee before Minerva, holding the box. His face, for once, was all earnest seriousness.

"Minerva McGonagall, you're the most beautiful woman in the world…will you marry me?"

Almost suspiciously, McGonagall opened the blue box. Inside was a gleaming, beautiful silver ring, with a single diamond nestled on top. The diamond was surrounded by nine tiny, perfect pearls.

"You added another pearl," was all that she could say.

"That was for the last time you refused, of course."

"Of course." McGonagall was silent.

Albus closed his eyes. "Is this another 'no', then?"

McGonagall was quiet. "Albus," her lips barely moved.

Dumbledore's eyes were ablaze behind the glasses and snowy white beard. "Yes?" His voice was just a quiet whisper.

McGonagall's eyes began to tear. "My dear, dear Albus" she said, kneeling on the ground with him and throwing her arms around his neck, "You're going to have to get another pearl."

Albus pocketed the ring silently, but put his arm around the woman he adored.

"I'm so…so sorry." Minerva's tears fell onto his shoulder. Albus disregarded them.

"Sorry? For what, pray?"

Minerva did not answer.

Albus took out a handkerchief. "Never you mind. It's alright. You haven't done anything wrong."

Minerva could not yet find words.

Dumbledore said nothing, just held Minerva in mutual silence. After a time, he whispered, "Are you going to ever tell me what holds you back? Look at us now; any passersby would assume we were made for each other."

His tone was light, but it proceeded in wrenching a sob from Minerva's bosom. "I still can't talk to you about it. I don't think I ever will." Minerva then proceeded to stand. "Don't misunderstand me; if there was a single man I could tell, you would be the first to know, let me say it now. But, as it is, I cannot confide in any, and that is that."

In the ensuing lapse of conversation, a knock came from the door.

"Can I come in? I'd be willin' ter go away for another ten seconds if ye be needin' of it…" Hagrid's muffled voice came through the door.

Albus sighed. "Come in, Hagrid."

Hagrid opened the door a trifle too quickly. A giant basket worthy of being possessed by its owner was in his hand.

"So…?" he half-asked Albus.

"Nothing doing, Hagrid." Albus' voice sounded as though he were cheerfully declaring to the world 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain!'; nevertheless, Hagrid caught the full weight of the comment. His very beard seemed to droop as he mumbled:

"Awwww…I was radur hopin' that fer once…"

But without further ado, they set about having their tea.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I didn't create Harry Potter, and I don't pretend I did. Don't sue me. Don't steal my original characters. That's it._\_

"Hello Rubeus, I'm Greta Muhlenkamp. The new D.A.D.A. instructor, you know?"

Hagrid looked the woman up and down in innocent appraisal. "You got big shoes ter fill."

Greta smiled. "I know; I've heard so much about Professor Lupin that I'm almost nervous about the first day of school. What if the students don't like me?"

"Don' worry; you'll manage. The kids ain't half bad, really." Hagrid stroked the feathers of a white mother Figglewindon who had just given birth to a litter of four. "Would ye do me a faver?"

"Sure, anything." Greta's glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose as she nodded. She pushed them back with the side of her hand.

"Would ye go inside and grab the first mumpleroot ye see? I need to replenish this ladies' strength, see?"

"Certainly, my dear Rubeus." And so Greta stepped inside.

Hagrid sighed. "She ain't bad as she seemed before…" he murmured to the Figglewindon, who only cooed in reply.

Greta came back out again with a large turnip-like plant.

"Here you go," she said in a sweet tone, like a mother who was about to bestow upon her child the medicine required to cure him of the whooping-cough or measles or whatnot.

Without a thought, Hagrid took out his pocketknife and, distractedly, began to cut up the root into small sliver-like pieces. All of a sudden, the knife went the wrong way and jabbed at his finger. Blood was drawn, and a long red mark began to show on Hagrid's finger.

"Aw…" Hagrid wrinkled his nose. But then, as he was about to put his finger in his mouth to cleanse it hastily, he noticed what exactly he was in the process of cutting in the first place.

"Why, this be a certamine! Not on yer life a mumpleroot!" Hagrid turned to Greta, his new opinion of her dissolved into nothingness. "What did ye want me ter do? Yer wanted me ter kill her? Just aftersuch she'd been in labor?" Hagrid stood up, holding the Figglewindon close to him. Greta said nothing; she stared up into the eyes of the half-giant not half a furlong's (whatever _that_ is) distance.

"Be away with you then! _Murderer!_"

Trembling little Greta then did do away with herself. She did this by running--running like hell.

-----------------------

Greta then decided to visit Professor Flitwick.

"Could you teach me a charm for warding away evildoers while at the same time changing their mood so that they don't want to do anything evil any more?" 

Flitwick looked up from where he had been reading a book. "Actually, no."

"Why not?"

"Such a charm…it does not exist."

Greta stamped her foot impatiently. "Well then! It should be created!"

"You go ahead and do that." Flitwick instantly regretted his words the moment he said them. But Greta was now not to be deterred.

"A novel idea, my dear Filius. How about--this sounds nice--_Alubromardi tuplenthioth!_'

The floating chandelier fell down.

"Oh dear, that didn't work--how about _Mayapethio Tuthfulion-ting!_"

Flitwick's bookshelf spontaneously combusted.

"Now this ought to work, I'm sure--_Labobardia Noarmondi!_"

A map of France hanging on the east wall began to have convulsions.

Flitwick finally managed to get out of his shocked stupor and ran out the door like the devil was on his tail.

--------------------------------

Greta ventured into a room she had only heard rumors from the other teachers about.

"Professor Trelawney? I'm--"

"Never mind introducing yourself--let me tell _you_, dearie…have some tea and from the very _dredges_ left in the cup, I'll tell you all there is to know about you."

"Thank you kindly."

"Of course, dearie. You shall be a lovely exercise for my inner eye, which sees all! Now please, take the tea service from that shelf over there and set it at this table."

"With pleasure."

_CRASH. _

"That…that was my grandmother's best china."

"I'm awfully sorry--"

_CRASH._

"My Winchester Porcelain!"

"I…I really didn't mean to do that--"

_CRASH. Thumpthump, thumpthump, thumpthump… _

"_MY CRYSTAL BALL IS ROLLING DOWN THE STAIRS!" _

"It's all right…I'll go find it…"

And so Greta made her speedy departure.

--------------------------------

"Temperance, I've brought you some cookies I made a few days ago, hopefully you'll--"

"--Greta! I'm over here!"

"Where?"

"Ack! don't go over there, you'll…"

_Sploosh. _

"…fall into the molding mix."

"Oh, my dear Temperance, I'm so sorry!"

"You say _you're _sorry! I told you not to go over there!"

"But--"

"Leave. Now. And by the way, don't call me 'my dear!'"

-----------------------------------

"What is this, Professor Snape?"

"Miss Muhlenkamp, I would be quite pleased if you did not…_touch…that…cauldron!_"

_Tumble-tumble SPLASH. _

"Damn you woman!"

"Professor Snape, I only wanted to--"

"--Out! OUT!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Out of my sight, confound it!"

-------------------------------

Dumbledore opened his eyes. Professor Greta Muhlenkamp saw this, and quickly walked back to his side just as she had been about to leave. She was sure to shut the door carefully.

Albus looked about himself. A shot glass with the remnants of firewhiskey was in his hand as it hung limply off the divan. A jug of the aforementioned liquor was on the desk.

"Oh! Headmaster…" Greta grasped his hand warmly. "What happened to you?"

It took a long time for Dumbledore to reply. "You ever been refuted in love, my dear? But of course you have; who has not?"

"It's all right." One of Greta's virtues was her ability to comfort. Perhaps she would have been better suited in life as an army nurse than a teacher. The only problem with that was probably she'd have blown herself up by the end of her first week--if one counts that as a problem.

Dumbledore smiled amid the tearstains. "Thank you, my dear. This is the only instance every five years I ever allow myself excessive alcoholic drink. So you needn't worry."

"You needn't either," Greta murmured softly. Her tone must have revealed her inner sadness to Dumbledore, even in his half-intoxicated state, and his eyes brightened in alarm.

"You…you getting along all right with the other teachers?" Albus sat up a bit.

"Well…" Greta tried to hide a tear. "They don't exactly like me…" She paused. "But that would be an understatement," she gasped, and she lowered her head as two fat tears trickled down her pale cheeks.

Dumbledore put a hand on her shoulder. "They'll come to like you, never fear."

"But…it's like they have a plan…a…a conspiracy against me! And I mean, they really hate me! Professor Snape even looked as though he wanted to hit me! And all I did was upset a silly old cauldron of his!"

"They don't have a conspiracy. How could they? You haven't even met all of them yet, have you?"

"No, but…"

"But what?"

"Still, I could swear that they all totally despise me!"

Dumbledore mulled over this for a moment. "Now, I'm not you, so I couldn't say that it wouldn't seem that way. But give them some time, I'll guarantee that they'll get used to you."

Greta sighed. "Thank you, sir. I value your opinion."

Albus gave a smile. "You don't believe me, do you?"

Greta laughed. "Actually, no offense, but I don't."

"It's all very well." Albus sighed, and his hand raised to his collar to undo it a button. He found, however, that it had been already done for him.

"By the way," he added thoughtfully, "Not that it's of any importance, but how long were you in here?"

Greta looked at a magical clock on the wall. "I'd say half an hour, sir."

Albus drilled her with his eyes. "Did I say anything while I was asleep? Sometimes I have the tendency to say the oddest things." The twinkle in his eyes was restored.

Greta smiled. "No, nothing. You slept like a baby, if I do say so myself."

Albus laid his head against the pillow. "All right, if you're sure."

"…Yes."

At this point, Greta took it that she was no longer needed…or wanted, however you want to put it…and she stood.

"I'll see you tomorrow, of course, headmaster?"

"But of course; term does begin once the students arrive for dinner, after all."

Greta's hand was on the doorknob. "Goodnight then, headmaster."

"Goodnight Miss_ (yawn_) Muhlenkamp."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I didn't create Harry Potter, and I don't pretend I did. Don't sue me. Don't steal my original characters. That's it._\_

A week later, one Greta Muhlenkamp was found, stone dead, in the garden.

"She seems to have been dead, oh, about twelve hours by now. But it's hard to ascertain for sure." Madam Pomfrey pulled the sheet back further off the body where it lay on a mossy knoll on the outskirts of the castle.

Albus Dumbledore looked at his watch. It was noon.

"So she was killed at midnight or so?"

"Exactly, or so I figure it. Now Albus, what do you make of this?" Pomfrey gingerly traced with her finger a vivid outline of red on the neck.

Albus looked earnestly at the mark. "She appears to have been strangled."

"With a thin cord of some type…perhaps like this?" Poppy Pomfrey proffered a piece of cotton lanyard. A speck of soil or two spoiled the otherwise immaculate whiteness of the long fiber.

"Very probably. Did you find that?"

"No," a small voice spoke. "I did when I found the body."

Albus looked thoughtfully at Hermione Granger. "Now how, Miss Granger, did you exactly find the body?"

Hermione was very nerve-wrecked. Perhaps dead things were her weakness. Or, dead people, at least. "Well Professor, I just was coming out to…to…well, I was just running over here and then suddenly, I literally tripped over her…" But here Hermione was at a loss for words, and fell into a disconsolate silence.

Dumbledore patted her shoulder. "It'll be all right, my dear. No harm done on your part, I'm certain."

"Thank you, sir. May I return to lunch, then?"

"But of course."

Hermione nodded herself out of the marked-off scene of the crime.

"Now WHO would have done such a heinous thing?" murmured Pomfrey as she surveyed the area. "And why?"

"That remains to be seen…" replied Dumbledore with a grave look on his face, and he glided away.

-----------------

"What are we going to do about this, Albus?" McGonagall exclaimed. Her eyes were ablaze with fury. "This is an outrage! If the parents ever find out, they'll withdraw their children immediately! And this is clearly a human killer, which makes it even less attractive a situation to parents! Even with the Chamber of Secrets, we had something non-human to blame it on! But this--why, it could be one of US for all they know!"

Dumbledore's head was in his hands. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…only this woman really hasn't been scorned," he muttered under his breath.

"What?" McGonagall's voice was sharp.

"Nothing, Minerva, nothing."

"This is NO TIME for your amusing little games, Albus," McGonagall reprimanded sternly. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself...making puns in the face of a crisis like this!"

"I am thoroughly." Albus did not mention the fact that puns, technically, are a form of joke based on a play of words, meaning that he had not made one.

McGonagall brushed a speck of dust from the mantelpiece. "We'll have to get this cleared up, you know," she said, a bit gentler.

"How so?"

"Well, first, we'll tell the school that--"

"--Minerva, forgive me for interrupting, but the whole school already knows. And the day's owls bearing tales of the misfortune to parents have also departed."

McGonagall paused. "True enough."

"Our only chance of defeating this is to clear the matter up, take out the guilty party, and announce that the affair is over to everyone--the parents, the faculty, and the students."

"Yes, but how are we supposed to 'clear the matter up'? If we get the Ministry on this case, then the press will know about it in no time, and the ensuing publicity will be devastating."

"We could hire a private investigator, perhaps."

McGonagall rolled her eyes. "What private investigators are there in today's day and age? They are far too scarce, and besides, what few of them exist all have a string tied around their legs by the media. At that rate, it's almost better to bring in the Ministry. So no, we cannot hire a private detective."

Albus inhaled slowly. "As always, you're quite right."

"…Um, Professors?" A quiet voice broke in. Luna Lovegood peeked her golden head around the edge of the open door.

McGonagall looked to Albus. Albus nodded. "Come in, Luna."

Timidly, Luna did so. "Professors, I hope you don't think me an eavesdropper, but as I was coming from the nurse's wing and your door was open, I overheard your conversation."

Albus waved his hand for her to continue.

"I think I can help, perhaps." She paused dramatically.

"How, my dear?" Albus asked quietly.

"Well," Luna began to dig in her bag. "There is a Muggle author I'm very fond of. Her name is Agatha Christie, and her books are pretty ravishing, if you ask me." She surfaced, holding a book. "Agatha Christie is renown in the Muggle world for her amazing detective stories. She even has been named as being 'the queen of the mystery novel.'"

"So how can that book help us?" McGonagall stared at the paperback until she could just make out the title: _Murder on the Orient Express._

Luna, however, was not to be rushed. "Agatha Christie…oh, once I went to London with my father and we saw her play _The Mousetrap…_it was so lovely! I had already read the script for it, but I nevertheless loved it, and the fun part was asking my father over and over again during the performance whether he thought it was the lady who owned the inn or the fussy lady who wanted to leave. And he never did get it until it was all over." If Luna had been typing this, she would have added a , face right there. In reality, though, she just smiled, her eyes bright.

McGonagall gave a look to Albus that read: _This isn't getting us anywhere…_

Albus shrugged and gave McGonagall a look that read: _Who cares!_

"But back to this book," Luna finally said.

McGonagall sighed with relief.

"This book is by her, about how a man gets murdered on that Muggle contraption called a 'train'. In it, there is a Muggle detective. His name is Hercule Poirot, and he's brilliant. He figured out that the entire train had collaborated in killing the dead man, and even found the evidence to prove it."

Minerva looked to Albus again, but the latter was just smiling at Luna patiently.

"Now," Luna went on, "In potions class we learnt a particular potion that would enable a character from a book to come to life for a certain period of time."

"For how long?" Albus asked thoughtfully.

"In class we made Eddleby Miffligins come to life for five whole minutes."

McGonagall had to try hard not to laugh.

"However," Luna continued, "We only used a small amount of the necessary ingredients. I think that if we used a larger amount of hecklemoop and phosphorus mix, we might be able to have Hercule Poirot with us for two weeks before he faded back into his book."

Dumbledore looked interested.. "Is that long enough for this man to finish solving the case?"

"Yes." Luna sounded positive.

"Are you certain?" McGonagall seemed a bit skeptical.

"Well…" Luna bit her lip. "If he doesn't, we can replenish the potion before he goes back so that he stays with us longer."

"And who will brew this potion?" Albus posed.

"Me."

McGonagall raised her eyebrow. "Are you certain it would be successful under your management?"

"Yes. Definitely."

"Well," Albus stood. "It's worth a try, my dear. Do set to it as soon as possible."

"Right away, professor," Luna nodded, and ran out of the room.


	5. Chapter 5

II

_The next day, an article in the New York Times read:_

Shocking news to Agatha Christe fans everywhere! Poirot has gone missing! At least, he has entirely disappeared from every copy of _Murder on the Orient Express_ (also known as _Murder in the Calais Coach_) in print, including from the National Archives! The extremely popular book, on every bookshelf, in every warehouse, and even in Agatha Christie's first final typed copy, now consists of merely this:

_M. Ratchett died on the Calais Coach. No one ever caught the murderer. The end._

This is an extraordinary development that seems almost fantastic. The publishers, Randomness Home, can offer no explanation for the apparent disappearance of the great detective.

On the side, no other Poirot books have been affected by this extraordinary phenomenon.

Emily Conway of the famed N.Y. Literary Mystery Club was reading _Murder on the Orient Express_ at the time of the disappearance.

"I was reading _Murder on the Orient Express _just yesterday night, and was at the part where Poirot finds the scarlet kimono in his very own suitcase (I've loved that part since I was a girl!) and, when I turned the page, the words were missing! This was extraordinary because I've read my copy of _Murder on the Orient Express_ some half-dozen times at least, and the words never had a habit of moving or disappearing in any way! I flipped back, and on every page, it was all the same! Blank pages, hundreds of them. All once full of words, but now existing only as a timberwolf in a snowed-in coal mine. Then, that cryptic message in the beginning…what did it mean?"

"What did it mean?" That, _mon amis,_ nobody knows. It is, perhaps, a mystery for 'ze little gray cells.'

-------------------------

"So, Mademoiselle, what am I to do now?"

Hercule Poirot, the famous detective stood, staring placidly at Luna Lovegood. He stroked his moustache fondly.

Luna stood from where she had been sitting on the floor of the girl's bathroom (yes, Moaning Myrtle's) while explaining the whole situation to the great detective.

"Well, first, messieur," she stated with a horrible French accent, curtsying as low as her short school skirt would admit her, "I shall be taking you to ze scene of ze crime nationale."

"Please, mademoiselle Luna, do me ze favor of holding ze accent? If it does not come naturally to one, zen…"

"Yes, yes, I understand." Luna nodded, resuming her thick British accent.

"What, so no one pays any attention to me anymore?" Moaning Myrtle flew suddenly out of the tap.

"I was wondering where you'd got to!" Luna exclaimed. She liked Moaning Myrtle; they knew each other to be kindred sisters in some way.

"Got a French chump here now have we?" Moaning Myrtle began to slowly circle Poirot.

Poirot stepped back hastily. "Mademoiselle le fantome, permit me to say that I am not a 'French' but a _Belgian_ 'chump.'"

Myrtle waved her hand. "Same difference. Say now, Luna, are you leaving now? Don't go."

For Luna was cleaning away her cauldron and utensils. "I'm sorry, Myrtle; I'll come visit you soon!"

"Why does everyone always LEAVE?!" cried Myrtle despairingly, looking as though she were about to break into sobs.

"Mademoiselle le fantome, please do not cry," Poirot said as consolingly as he could muster towards a ghost.

"Do YOU promise to come back?" Myrtle's look turned from heartbroken to suspicious.

"I most certainly promise." And with that, Poirot took Myrtle's ghostly hand (or gave a good imitation of it) and kissed it. "Enchante, mademoiselle."

Myrtle giggled. "The French gent's got a sweet on me, eh?" she asked Luna.

Luna shrugged indifferently. Poirot looked at her imploringly.

"Come on, Monsieur," Luna grasped his arm and guided him away. They could hear Myrtle singing softly to herself behind them:

"The French gent's got a sweet on me, the French gent's got a sweet on me!"

"_Belgian_" Poirot muttered under his breath.

------------------


End file.
